


The Pillars of Hercules

by PC_Hopkins (orphan_account)



Series: Not At All Like a Grecian Myth [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Kink Meme, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-05
Updated: 2012-07-08
Packaged: 2017-11-09 05:22:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/451804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/PC_Hopkins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kink Meme fill: "Mycroft and Lestrade break up over Sherlock's return, as Mycroft hadn't told Lestrade Sherlock was alive. They can barely stand to be in the room together. Can they find their way back?"</p><p>  <i>Being constantly ruled by emotion would be such an exhausting state... It was a lot cleaner, a lot easier to be done with them, to stop feeling, to stop caring. Most of the time he was convinced of this truth, knew exactly that this was how things should be. </i></p><p>  <i>Sometimes, however… sometimes he wasn’t sure if he wanted things to be cleaner.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Made of Salt and Sand

It had been somewhat challenging pretending that Mycroft thought his brother wasteful enough to take his own life. (Not as difficult as ensuring Sherlock did not _actually_ die while gallivanting about the continent, going after hardened criminals who Mycroft was sure would have an alarmingly long criminal record had they ever been caught – but he digressed. It had become an irritating habit of his, lately.) The easiest part of the whole charade had been letting John believe the worst of him – he was already predisposed to mislike Mycroft, for whatever reason. He didn’t much care about John’s opinion of him; it was easier to work with a flatmate of Sherlock’s who would willingly give up information, but John was a stereotypical, macho soldier and thus not terribly difficult to manipulate. The (predictable) way he acted made Mycroft feel ill sometimes – all that testosterone and aggression. Really, where was the finesse?

A little bit of aggression, perhaps, was necessary in some cases – even to be encouraged. One only had to think of Gr…

(His mind faltered for a split second, and he was seized by terror at the thought of having his thinking faculties impaired by emotion, of all things, as well as the startlingly clear memory of having _Funk & Wagnall’s Standard Desk Dictionary L-Z_ thrown at his head, which had bounced off the wall instead and shattered the frame of a vaguely admired landscape.)

…egory to see an instance where it was not undesirable. But he, too, had shown a hither to unknown level of aggression.

It wasn’t that Mycroft didn’t see what the fuss was all about, unlike Sherlock, who had come to him nursing a fractured cheekbone and a stunned look, and had expected _sympathy_. No, Mycroft understood Gregory’s upset but, as he had pointed out so reasonably during their little fight, he hardly saw why the man was choosing to punish him for something which could not have been helped.

That was the point at which the dictionary had been thrown. Then Gregory had stormed out; Mycroft had presumed – _never, never presume; you’ve become slack, over-confident_ , comfortable – that he was merely going back to his cesspool of a flat to mope for a while before eventually conceding to Mycroft’s superior logic. Strangely, that had not transpired. He had not seen Gregory for some time.

Being constantly ruled by emotion would be such an exhausting state, he thought. It was a lot cleaner, a lot easier to be done with them, to stop feeling, to stop caring. Most of the time he was convinced of this truth, knew exactly that this was how things should be. Anyway, no amount of remorse would change the outcome. Having a dictionary aimed at one’s head tended to signal that peaceful relations were well and truly concluded. It was for the best – he had even weighed up the variables and calculated that this statement was 93% true.

Sometimes, however… sometimes he wasn’t sure if he wanted things to be cleaner.

It was possible that the 7% he would have normally dismissed as negligible was, in fact… not so very unimportant.

That would mean admitting he could possibly be wrong, when, at present, he could not afford to be wrong. But he couldn’t help the feeling…

Feeling.

His mind narrowed down on that concept with sharp disdain. _Feeling._ Every fibre of his being scorned the very idea – what use was feeling? What possible benefit could come from admitting he could be in the wrong? That _perhaps_ the 7% probability was correct? That _maybe_ it would do better to not ignore the problem, and wait for it to inevitably vanish?

‘Perhaps’ and ‘maybe’ were all well and good for the common man, but he would have none of it.

Lestrade – for he was Lestrade now, not Gregory… he had to be – was not a suitable person to be engaged with. Mycroft had recognised that from the start, of course he had, considered all the possible variables and decided to throw caution to the wind regardless. _Now_ , naturally, it had come back to haunt him, as he had predicted it might – what had it been, a 71% chance that they would split due to… character flaws? He had never been more correct. Lestrade was an honest kind of man, who allowed himself to be too easily led and who could not understand – even worse than not abiding, in Mycroft’s view – the purpose of lying, even when it was to save his own, ungrateful skin. Mycroft knew his own flaws and faults intimately. He’d been somewhat surprised when Gr… Lestrade had pinpointed them so accurately, if a little crudely. _You fucking manipulative, controlling arsehole. You Holmeses think you’re so fucking above it all, don’t you?_ Yes, he did, but merely because it was true.

Had been true. He frowned at the cup of tea sitting on the desk in front of him. When had that gone cold? He was spending far too much time thinking about his non-existent ‘love life,’ as the gutter press called it. Work was strenuous enough without slipping into idle daydreams and quiet laments about ‘what might have been’s and ‘what if’s.

They’d started asking questions, again, about that little plane debacle. The three months he’d spent off the radar in Central Europe had, obviously, not gone unnoticed. He’d known that it wouldn’t have, that there would be these sorts of questions to neatly side-step (or, if worst came to worst, actually answer) when he returned. But it _was_ vexing; he thought he’d quashed any curiosity about the failure of Bond Air at the time. Evidently not.

He was very glad his assistant was a private contractor; otherwise he might have ended up being found as a skeleton at the bottom of the Thames in twenty years time. As it was, Sherlock’s little problems had put him once more on the edge between useful and disposable. Mycroft knew the truth of it; he _was_ virtually indispensable to the continued smooth running and application of the country’s foreign and internal policy. Whether the higher ups remembered it before they requested he be quietly removed from the land of the living was another matter entirely.

As he watched his assistant enter the room with her usual silent grace and enquire as to his general wellbeing and whether or not he wanted that file on current active agents in the local area, he thought, _time to ride out the storm._ He simply could not afford to not come out the other side, both for his sake, and his brother’s sake.

“Yes,” he replied and added, “I’ll need you to stay late tonight.”

“Of course.” She even looked up from her omnipresent Blackberry for a moment, pursing her lips before adding, with uncharacteristic feeling: “It’s good to have you back, sir.”

He would feel very put out if the day ended with her attempting to poison his tea, he thought, and said as much.

“You pay me too much for that, sir.”

That was the prelude for a mildly straining day at the ‘office’, so to speak, although he spent his time at about four of them, so ‘offices’ was perhaps more appropriate. Negotiating so that his position in the secret civil service, as he liked to think of it, would remain both secret and civil almost caused him to stop thinking about his little problem, and, for five glorious seconds, pushed it to the back of his mind. Then, in a disgustingly maudlin display, he’d heard a siren blaring in the distance and idly wondered what Lestrade was doing at the moment. The foreign secretary had been in tears by the time he finished unleashing his frustrations upon the man.

It was another day before it occurred to him that Lestrade had most likely been fired, and was currently unemployed even as Mycroft wasted time being coldly indignant on his behalf. This time, it was the secretary for defence that left one of his many offices weeping like a small child.

He made his way through several more of them throughout the week, and moved swiftly onto ministers who came to complain about the excess of sobbing secretaries. The minister for sport went so far as to have a panic attack out on the pavement. Really, it was their own fault for being so gormless, so _weak_ … for individually having grey hair, smiling too easily, staring at him with chocolate brown eyes, being roughly five foot and nine inches, wearing cheap cotton shirts, making awful small talk about the football like he _cared_ , drinking black-no-sugar coffee, using the same brand shampoo and laundry detergent…

Merida, her name for this week, had the temerity to raise her eyebrows at him and give a condescending, “Yes, sir,” when he declared the truth: that the universe was conspiring against him in a most insidious fashion. Well, the universe did not know him very well if it thought being reminded of Lestrade everywhere he went would in any way make Mycroft remorseful or repentant.

None of this was his fault, after all.

“Fine,” he snapped at Merida’s bored and standard enquiry as to his health. She glanced up, startled, and he realised he had never deigned to answer that particular question.

But he _was_ fine. Perfectly fine. The universe would eventually get over this brief period of maddening remembrance. In the meantime, the earth would continue spinning, politicians would continue to be difficult, and he would continue to be just fine.

 

\---

 

His visits to 221B in the weeks after the Return, as he privately dubbed it, were met with the usual childish enmity from Sherlock – although he kept casting furtive (and, nauseatingly, _worried_ ) glances at Mycroft whenever he thought his older brother wasn’t looking – and slightly more controlled hostility from John. Needless to say, Mycroft did not visit his brother as often as he used to or even ought to. If he wished to delude himself, he could provide several work-related reasons as to why he stayed away. However, it was more due to the fact that he would use his umbrella for wholly unsanctioned and violent uses the next time he caught Sherlock looking at him with furrowed brows as if he were a particularly problematic scientific experiment. It appeared that Sherlock had forgotten who had taught him the art of discretion – well, attempted to, anyway. He used it whenever it best suited him, which was all Mycroft could hope for.

 _Really_ , he thought irritably, ascending the stairs to the flat and making sure to firmly place his umbrella down on each of them so as to annoy the irascible Sherlock, _when did the word ‘hope’ – or ‘feeling’, for that matter – enter my vocabulary? It is an inexcusable waste of space—_

Later, in attempting to defend his subsequent action (or lack thereof), he would remind himself that his performance had been substandard for some weeks now, and that he had slipped back into his old habit of sleeping poorly. It served to explain why he only realised someone else was in the flat when he reached the step just before the landing, and why then he unthinkingly froze in place.

Unfortunately, Lestrade was standing over by the window facing the door and was able to spot Mycroft immediately.

“Fucking Christ,” the man said, with admirable sentiment. (Mycroft made a mental note to erase the word ‘sentiment’ from his vocabulary, or to only use it in situations requiring a certain level of scorn.) Lestrade did not look as good as he normally did, but still a damn sight better than anything Mycroft had seen for a while… salt-and-pepper stubble and black bags under his eyes aside. “Tells me he’s just popping down to Tesco’s for a bit and he’s gone for fucking twenty minutes and now _you’re_ here. Jesus, what the fuck do you _want?_ ”

Mycroft would have attempted to answer, if he could have somehow opened his mouth. It took him five seconds to eventually croak, “Please don’t throw another dictionary at me,” which was possibly the most idiotic thing he’d uttered since he was three.

“Meddling arsehole,” Lestrade muttered, continuing to voice his dissatisfaction at the current situation, “Thinks he suddenly knows how to have healthy relationships because John’s a fucking saint. I don’t want to talk, all right? Didn’t you get that from not returning your calls? Jesus Christ, you fucking Holmeses.”

Mycroft had put up with quite enough. Had been putting up with quite enough for the past few months; not just from his ex… boyfriend, but also from the idiotic meddlers at work, his irritating younger brother, and even the snide remarks his assistant was making about his current attitude. Diplomacy could only take one so far, after all. Sometimes it was best to get straight to the point, without flair or embellishment.

“Oh, go and shove it, you pernicious ingrate,” he snapped back, moved to the first stirrings of genuine anger. He was almost certain it would give him indigestion, and resolved to have it all out now in order to preserve his future health.

“Pernicious ingrate…?” Lestrade repeated, staring at him with wide eyes. His voice rose furiously. “ _Pernicious ingrate?_ ”

“Read a dictionary, you illiterate sod, that’s what they’re there for.” Good God this was making him feel slightly light-headed. Was this how normal people fought? It was both exhilarating and awful.

“I know what pernicious ingrate means,” Lestrade snarled, “for your fucking information. So, so you think it’s fucking _ungrateful_ of me to be so _selfish_ as to not take you back with willing fucking arms after I found out you’d been lying to me for this whole fucking time?”

“I think it a testament to your individual weakness that you can’t accept that I was doing so to save your thankless skin.”

“It wasn’t your fucking decision to make, did you ever think about that?”

“Frankly,” Mycroft continued, ignoring that little jab, (because no, he hadn’t,) “I’m astounded that you can forgive Sherlock for throwing himself off a building, but admitting that I was doing this for your own benefit is somehow beyond you.”

“He didn’t come to me the night after the funeral looking for comfort! He didn’t fucking leave me stranded for three _fucking_ months without so much as a text while I was left here couch-hopping! He didn’t come back and give me a pat on the fucking head and say, ‘there, there,’ like nothing had happened and want to pick up where we left off as if I’m a bit of rough you can fucking chuck about as you like. You – weren’t – _there!_ Didn’t it fucking occur to you that maybe _I_ needed someone to hold me and tell me everything was going to be just fucking peachy?”

It was easier to become angrier than think too deeply about that. He did so, feeling an almost beatific sense of righteous fury. “Do you think that the three months I spent away were somehow _easy?_ What do you imagine I was doing – sitting on a beach in Spain, idly passing the time away?”

“I didn’t have a _fucking clue_ what you were doing!” was the shouted reply. “For all I knew you might’ve just decided to up and kill yourself, for God’s…” Lestrade stopped, mid-rant, startling Mycroft out of forming his own, vociferous response. He shook his head, clenched his jaw, and said, in a terribly level voice, “You know what? Fuck it. Tell your brother to stop messing with things that aren’t his problem, will you? I want the both of you to leave me the fuck alone.”

With that pithy statement, he walked past Mycroft, rattling down the stairs and out the door.

 _Fuck_ , Mycroft thought, in an uncharacteristic display of fatalistic vulgarity. It wasn’t enough, so he thought it again, feeling none the better for having done so. His next resort was tea, so he strode into the kitchen, heroically ignoring the repulsive décor that he had offered on several occasions to redesign.

He made tea. He resisted the impulse to swipe his umbrella along the table and violently clear off all the dusty equipment. He instead cleared a neat space by pushing a Bunsen burner to the side, and sat down, and drank the tea with supreme calm.

When Sherlock came bounding up the stairs three minutes later, he felt almost in control of himself. When Sherlock began to complain about him scaring Lestrade away, he felt the control slip infinitesimally and allowed himself to voice an irritated exhale.

Because John was nowhere to be seen, Mycroft felt relatively comfortable about discussing the unfortunate events that had just transpired. “I hardly see how you’ll force us back together by arranging accidental meetings,” he remarked, calmly. He was calm, so very, very calm, like an iceberg drifting in the serenity of the ocean, as the ocean was being bombarded by nuclear bombs from the French testing—no, no, that was _not_ calming him down, back to the serene ocean...

“Not when you don’t want it to work.” Sherlock crossed his arms, as if daring Mycroft to find fault with his analysis of the situation.

His fingers tightened ever so slightly on the handle of the gauche, green mug he’d been forced to drink out of. “Is that so.”

“Don’t play dumb, Mycroft; it’s common. And you know what Mummy would have said.”

“She never said anything,” he replied tersely. “Don’t bring her into this.” 

“Touchy,” Sherlock muttered, restlessly picking up a measuring cylinder containing God-knew-what. The mysterious substance was neon blue, however, which narrowed it down to about two-hundred-and-thirty possible things. “You’ve been insufferable without him,” he declared finally, setting the cylinder down again only to fiddle with an electron microscope. “John would say that you’re letting your happiness go or some romantic nonsense like that. The basic idea applies, however.”

Mycroft refrained from saying that he didn’t care a whit for what John Watson thought. Sherlock was ever so defensive when it came to his… friends, if one could call them that. “You think I would be…” he sneered, “ _happy_ with your pet policeman?”

“I’ve observed that you’re unhappy without him.”

He took a sip from the mug, set it down gently, adjusted it so the handle was facing 90°, and said, “Indeed?”

“You agree?” Sherlock asked sharply, glancing up from the microscope.

“Not in the slightest.”

“Oh.” He slumped with what Mycroft presumed was relief, and knew to be ghastly posture. “But I _am_ right,” he argued a moment later, absorbed in the world of the miniscule once more.

“Sherlock, strange as it may seem, it is not a crime to occasionally be incorrect.”

“So you admit that you’re treating Lestrade incorrectly?” Sherlock had an infuriating ability to twist Mycroft’s words back in on themselves. He would have made a fine diplomat, had he been at all diplomatic.

“You have forgotten the family principle,” he said patiently. “Things must be considered over the space of a year. Present… upset may, in fact, turn out to be a benefit in the future.”

“I didn’t _forget_ it, I just choose to ignore it. It’s a stupid principle, encourages sloth and indolence, doesn’t take into account the fast-paced nature of the world today. Do you want me to go on?”

“No, that’s quite enough. I meant it,” he added when Sherlock opened his mouth to continue ranting. “My memory is as sound as it ever was the last three hundred times you told me this.”

“Three hundred and four.”

“If you must be petty, by all means.” Sherlock simply huffed in response. The elder Holmes took one last sip of tea, before adding quietly, “Not every couple has a fairytale ending, Sherlock. Consider yourself fortunate.”

“If you’d been this resigned when I came to you looking for help, I wouldn’t have had the chance,” Sherlock snapped. He was rather unreasonably irate, in Mycroft’s view. “You’re being your usual fat, lazy self, and I hope he finds someone else more deserving.”

Mycroft felt very cold all of a sudden. Early winter, it must be, as well as Sherlock’s damned cheap heating. “Thank you for your input. It was so nice to talk; expect me sometime again next year.”

Ignoring Sherlock’s bewildered, “Where the hell are you going?” he made his way swiftly down the stairs and out into the crisp November air. Sherlock poked his head and most of his torso out of the upper storey window and shouted, “And you call _me_ childish, you miserable _git_.”

To top it off, John Watson had just stepped out of a cab, and was staring, open-mouthed, at the pair of them.

“What…?” he began eloquently.

“Good day, John,” Mycroft said frostily, striding away with purpose. “Do enjoy my brother’s company, won’t you.”

As a general rule, Holmeses did not shake, quiver, tremble, or move in any sort of violent manner. Sherlock was, of course, one exception to this rule, as his principle form of movement was throwing himself at things, but Mycroft was nothing if not fond of tradition. He was _not_ shaking by the time he reached his car. If anything, it was merely a very brisk breeze that had only affected his hands. They were especially susceptible to inclement weather. 

Everything would be fine, he told himself. Completely, utterly, absolutely _fine_.

 

\---

 

Everything was not fine.

Possibly because he was sitting on the floor of his office drinking Vintage Dom Pérignon straight from the bottle. Possibly because he was unable to think straight, or to focus his attention on anything for more than five minutes. Possibly because he’d been involved in an entirely too vicious argument with two people he considered quite important. Possibly because he had researched a remembered accusation – couch hopping – and discovered that Lestrade had been evicted from his flat some months ago. Mycroft was left wondering what else he may have overlooked, and feeling the icy fingers pinched around his mid-chest region grow tighter and tighter.

Possibly because it was quite clear Lestrade had no intention of coming back, ever. Ever, ever, ever.

Oh, of course he’d _known_ ; he always knew. But understanding the theory and having it shown to him in practice were two completely different things.

He should be over this by now. It had been a… a while. How long? Two months since the dictionary and the screaming and the slamming of doors. Five months since the night after the funeral. He’d _read_ the books and the Internet articles; lot of fucking good they did him. _Complete Idiot’s Guide to Healthy Relationships. Handling a Breakup. The Best Ways to Cope with a Breakup._ On and on the list went until the books became so saccharine and so idiotic they made him want to order a flash raid on the publishing houses.

But he would find the key to fixing this if it necessitated him reading every self-help book in the field, and if it brought down the entire fucking Commonwealth in the process.

How Sherlock had managed to worm his way back into John’s good graces was a complete mystery as far as he was concerned. _Mycroft_ was meant to be the brother who could function like a normal human being and interact in society as if he were, _not_ Sherlock. Especially not when the whole situation was his darling little brother’s fault in the first place. Mycroft wanted to hate someone. Wanted to hate Sherlock.

Mycroft pressed his fingertips to his mouth, digging his nails into the skin just above, and hated himself instead.


	2. (I Can't) Hold Up the Weight of the Sky

The machine of bureaucracy may have been a slow, lumbering beast, but it was, above all, a relentless one. Mycroft had carved out his niche in government for many reasons – his inability to be without work one of them – but mostly because he admired the discipline and constancy of the System. This meant, however, that he could ill afford to let his emotions dictate his ability to work. Work would not slow down for his benefit, nor would his ‘colleagues’ – few though there were – attempt to assist him. He would be infuriated had they tried, in fact: a sign they thought him too weak to accomplish his own tasks.

So, he pushed past the now constant ache in his chest, and continued working. If he did so with an even greater mania and drive than before, it was all for the better, surely. He found perfectly sound and logical reasons to work through the night (other than the fact that his cold, dark apartment was wholly unwelcoming.)

Information came through his sources that Lestrade had – for lack of a better word – fled to regional France, to stay with his no doubt loving and boisterous family. It occurred to Mycroft that he would probably return with an extremely attractive man or woman clinging off his arm.

In the next breath, Mycroft wondered if he would ever be able to stage his own death in a way that would dupe even Sherlock into believing it had been accidental. Unlikely. His brother was uncannily sharp, even if his intelligence was like candle-flame to Mycroft’s own bonfire. Not for want of potential, merely for want of _interest_. Knowing anything that was not relevant to the field of detective work simply did not appeal to Sherlock. There had been stranger Holmeses than he, a thought that comforted Mycroft slightly. One of his uncles had been convinced that he was the second coming of Christ, which had caused more than one embarrassing incident at the seldom held and rarely attended Holmes gatherings.

Besides brokering deals, contemplating new schemes, and otherwise negotiating his way in the world of politics, he had several projects of a personal nature currently running. Chief among them was the on going clean up necessitated by the time spent carefully planning the destruction of a criminal mastermind’s legacy. Well… nobody but he and Sherlock needed to know about that, did they?

It was a damned nuisance finding a place to dump bodies in the local area where they would never be discovered, however. If the problem ever made it to New Scotland Yard he could always arrange to make Lestrade the detective in charge of the…

 _Oh_ , he thought, train of thought halted momentarily.

That was the other personal matter he had briefly forgotten about. It would need to be resolved shortly, and required a modicum of legwork. Legwork was becoming more and more appealing to sitting in the Diogenes.

Had he developed a sudden personality disorder? Or was he merely going to die soon? Could the chest ache be a genuine symptom of some deadly illness? He consulted his assistant, who gave him a troublingly concerned look before assuring him it was perfectly normal and no, of course he wasn’t going to die and did he need anyone to talk to, if so she could give him the names of several discreet therapists who were experts in the field of break ups.

_Therapist?_

He felt horrified for point two of a second, mortified for a further point four, and then, finally, coldly irritated. He assured her icily that the last thing he required at this particular junction was to talk about his _feelings_ with an idiot in an armchair, who probably barely met the minimum qualifications and would try to convince him that this… this _longing_ was somehow normal.

Ira (and how fitting that she should take the name of that wretched mother goddess this week) raised her eyebrows at her Blackberry, and said, “I’ll schedule a meeting tomorrow morning.”

Sometimes he wasn’t so glad that his assistant was a private contractor, and thought her to be a meddling harpy instead. If he weren’t fond of his skin, he might have told her so, but he was fairly certain she knew five ways to kill a man with her bare hands, and twenty with her smart phone.

He would simply have to hack her phone, he thought, mildly annoyed at the inconvenience.

“I’ve already scheduled it, sir; there’s no point in hacking my phone,” Ira said patiently. He replied that he did not think that the department would be very pleased with her misuse of the prototype mind reading technology. “I have worked with you for over a decade, sir. I like to pretend that I can tell what you’re thinking about occasionally. Also, you were eyeing my phone rather overtly.”

“One session.”

“We’ll see how you go.” It was as near a promise as he would be able to extract from her.

The therapist was an idiot, as Mycroft had well predicted. He was also an alcoholic, unhappy in his current (gay) relationship, suspected (correctly) that his partner was cheating on him, had undiagnosed, if mild, bipolar disorder, had failed his course twice before finally scraping enough marks to meet the minimum standard, drank horrifically sugary coffee, and started weeping at the slightest provocation. It took Mycroft just under a minute to observe all of this, a further five minutes to verbally dissect the man, and, within the first ten minutes of the meeting, made the therapist flee the room while trying (unsuccessfully) not to sob.

Ira was waiting in the black car. She actually sighed at him. For a split second, he felt compelled to defend his actions, before remembering that he was her superior and thus beyond her criticism.

“Ten minutes does not a session make,” she said crisply, forgoing the usual ‘sir’ tacked onto the end of every remark she made.

“I happen to think otherwise,” was his mild reply. “We covered a great deal of ground during that time, and I feel much the better for having gone.”

“It does not count when you are analysing someone else’s problems.”

He gave a derisive huff. “I would not trust a fool like that to correctly identify the problems you feel I am suffering.”

“How could you tell he was a fool if you would not even let him say more than, ‘good morning’?”

“Come now,” he said contemptuously, “it is all too easy to separate the clever from the stupid. Did you not see his tie? The manner in which he styled his hair? That misquoted Shakespeare tattoo on his lower arm?”

“Sir, if you won’t talk to anyone, at least take some time off.”

What a ludicrous notion. He had not been this offended for a considerable number of years. “I have no intention of doing anything of the sort.”

“You have been working erratically ever since you returned,” she informed him, nearly stabbing at the keys to her smart phone. “You have lost nearly two stone in that time. The documents I receive from you are riddled with spelling and grammatical errors and nearly unintelligible in some parts. If you won’t take leave for your own health, do so for my sake.”

“Unintelligible?” he enquired, without the usual derision he reserved for repetition of words. Spelling and grammatical errors? Now he _was_ concerned.

“At one point in a report, you started writing about how much you hated chocolate. A whole page focused on your dislike of the confectionary. Then you relaunched into the subject of nuclear proliferation.”

He said nothing. He could vaguely—vaguely? His mind baulked. An eidetic memory and he could only remember the report _vaguely?_ It had been one of those written at four in the morning after no sleep the previous night. He thought he might have also broken his diet that day, before stringently cutting back when he realised his error.

The notion that this… problem – yes, fine, he would admit it was evolving into one – was affecting his work was nearly unthinkable, and absolutely intolerable.

“Take three days off,” she suggested gently. “The world won’t collapse if you don’t come in over the weekend or on Monday.”

“The Commonwealth might,” Mycroft muttered, but did not offer up any further argument. Perhaps a few days off would be… for the best.

\---

Pursuing a career such as his always came with difficulties. Some might call them sacrifices. It was not an inaccurate summation. Most of the time, his job necessitated all of his care and attention – whatever else he could spare was left worrying incessantly about his brother. He did not have the time or, frankly, emotional capacity to form holistic romantic attachments or any sort of deep and lasting bond with another person. Nor did he have _hobbies_. Normally, he would view the mere existence of such things a reprehensible waste of time, but being barred from doing any sort of productive work had him wondering irritably why he had not continued with piano after his adolescence. He could read, yes: if he were at all interested in the drivel that passed as fictional literature nowadays. It was unfortunate that he had read all of the classics before he was ten, and could, even now, remember enough detail that it put him off re-reading them.

The Internet, although a cesspit for the worst that humanity had to offer, was one possible diversion that kept him briefly entertained and, more often than not, mildly incensed as to how people this stupid could merit the oxygen that they consumed. Perhaps he had been a little short-tempered lately, given that his job was devoted to the long-term benefit of at least some of these people. He thought he really shouldn’t hate all of them as much as he did.

He managed to occupy several hours on Saturday clearing up Scotland Yard; he still had a not inconsiderable influence on the police commissioner, after all. Detective Superindendent Ferguson, it was announced on Monday, was retiring to spend more time with his family. _Oh, yes,_ thought Mycroft, smiling nastily at the television screen, _the wife that he hated, and the son he never spoke to._

It was also announced that a DCI Gregson would be taking up the role after long service to the Met, etc, etc. They were also now reportedly looking into the ‘unfair dismissal’ of several of their officers during the recent unpleasantness surrounding the fake death and subsequent return of a ‘valuable’ consultant. Mycroft nearly scoffed; they hadn’t been nearly so charitable six months ago. 

He anticipated that Lestrade would get the call on Tuesday and be… Well, Mycroft did not want to hazard a guess as to his feelings. He had been wrong on the subject before. A bit of gratitude was to be expected, but probably not received. Even if Lestrade worked out who had pulled the strings to ensure his reinstatement, he had demonstrated his ungraciousness.

So, one more loose end tidied up. He would have the aftermath of Central Europe cleared up soon, and that would be that. Sherlock would have his John, and Mycroft… his work.

He told himself that it was enough.

He spent the rest of the weekend nearly bored out of his mind – not that he would ever admit it to Sherlock (or anyone, for that matter) – and only Ira threatening to lock him in his apartment all day kept him from coming in on Monday. He spent his time in the Diogenes, instead, the thick snow outside stripping him of any desire to vacate his spot by the fire.

It was only upon receiving a text from Ira detailing the events of the day that he realised it was the 24th of December. Christmas Eve, point of fact. There would be no reason to come into the office tomorrow; everyone was preoccupied with their detestable families and celebrating a pagan festival that had been adopted to signify the birth of Christ Jesus. It made his stomach roil in nauseated irritation just thinking about it. There was a family on his apartment floor who were always so dreadfully loud, even though he knew for a fact that there was nothing to be celebrated with the way their relations were progressing. 

Thank whatever deity it was socially acceptable to worship that he would not have to endure similar festivities. He had enough to be miserable about already without having to drag himself to 221B and suffer through his brother’s petty taunting and John’s barely civil antagonism.

Besides, what other relatives had he? Mummy had died a week after Sherlock had framed his death, of a ‘broken heart.’ She had not even remained alive long enough to attend the fake funeral. Mycroft doubted she would have been so affected if it had been him. Nobody would have been. Perhaps the Queen, Harry, and his assistant.

It was somewhat disheartening to think the list of people who would mourn him was so low. The _impact_ of his death, on the other hand, would result in several schemes grinding to a halt, and his plan for the future of Britain being unfulfilled, no doubt. Ah, well, there was always that to consider, wasn’t there. At least the Work was appreciative.

He had received quite a few texts from Sherlock during the past month that he had not bothered reading. They were likely paltry jabs, complaints about how he had somehow scared Lestrade away for good, or requests for help. If it were the last, and if it were urgent, he would have called Mycroft by now, so he presumed they were simply focused around the first two options. However, he was nothing if not true to his word: he did not want to see, talk, or otherwise communicate with Sherlock until the new year. A pity it was in six days. Almost immediately he regretted that spiteful thought; he did care for his brother, inasmuch as he was able to. It was just that it was so very exhausting to interact with Sherlock. He was anarchy and petulance in a long coat. (Ruined and still not replaced, he remembered, and made a mental note to purchase another. That would be his contribution to the Christmas Spirit of Capitalism.)

By Christmas Day, which dawned snowy, loud and otherwise unendurable, Mycroft had grown so intellectually restless that he decided to read the texts anyway, Sherlock’s petulance aside. 

Well done; you made him flee across the Channel. Where to next? The Moon?

SH 

Neptune, perhaps?

SH

What on earth is Pluto? It is not a planet. Tell John he’s incorrect.

SH

Could you make it a planet again?

SH

Mycroft, I require your assistance.

SH

Don’t tell me I somehow hurt your non-existent feelings.

SH

Are you dead?

SH

You must be dead.

SH

I don’t suppose you’re coming to Christmas.

SH 

Especially not if you’re dead.

SH

This is what I meant when I said ‘insufferable.’ The death of your relationship has made you dull.

SH 

Duller than normal, anyway.

SH

Oh, hell, this is intolerable! Why don’t you apply the advice you gave me to your problem? I didn’t think I’d need to spell it out for you, you utter dolt.

SH 

Mycroft?

SH

You cannot actually be dead. I refuse to believe it. Your irritating assistant would have called me. Therefore, you are simply ignoring me because I am right. Do something about it instead of bloody moping like a miserable, lonely sod, would you?

SH

Yes, Mycroft had been correct in his prediction of childishness. What alarmed him was the implication that Sherlock somehow _cared_ about the state of Mycroft’s relationship with the newly reinstated DI. John had made him soft, he decided. The Sherlock of a year ago would not have done anything this sentimental. Of course, they had been working in a much different atmosphere for bordering on three months. Perhaps some of it had rubbed off. He couldn’t deny he felt slightly warmer towards his brother than he had previously. Planning and executing the death of a hit team of assassins tended to improve one’s relations dramatically. They’d been virtually civil. For a while. He’d known things would have to go back to the way they were once they were back in England, but it had been… pleasant.

He wasn’t about to attend Christmas at 221B, however. The degeneration of his relationships with Lestrade and Sherlock was simply… the way things had to be. Greater Good, etcetera, etcetera. (It was too early for patriotic fanfare, thought he, annoyed by the sounds of people _enjoying_ themselves that permeated even the sturdy walls of his apartment.) 

However… and it was a thought he could only admit while in bed, a pillow over his head to muffle the screeching laugh from down the hall, and feeling vaguely queasy from over indulging in port last night… well, simply put, he was getting rather sick of The Greater Good. Especially when it was quite clear The Greater Good did not have the interests of one Mycroft Holmes in mind.


	3. Tremors

The downside to having avoided the Christmas festivities was that he was obliged to attend New Year’s Eve, if only to check that his brother and the doctor had not murdered one another. Or someone else, for that matter.

Which was why he found himself pressed virtually flush against the hideous wallpaper of 221B, nursing both a glass of substandard sparkling wine and a headache with equal disdain.

Most people counted up to midnight with giddy anticipation for the new year, as if somehow their lives would magically change from the dull, monotonous haze that they, and most other people in this fine country, seemed to live in. He was counting up to midnight so he could make his polite goodbyes, retreat back to his silent (lonely, miserable, hateful) flat, and try to think of a way to legislate the banning of both Christmas and New Year’s celebrations. The Puritans had a very good idea of it. All this nonsense about _good will towards men_ and _resolutions for the new year_ were all very well and good, so long as one managed to maintain them for longer than the attention span of a gnat.

And if banning these holidays meant he did not have to attend these ghastly celebrations… well, so much the better. 

It didn’t help that everyone aside from Sherlock appeared to be at least three-quarters on the way to being severely intoxicated – _if they aren’t already_ , he thought, eyeing the flushed and tittering morgue attendant _(oh, call me Molly, please!)_ with no little contempt. Mrs. Hudson was throwing back sherry as if the government were about to put a wholesale ban on the vile liquor, which wasn’t a terribly bad idea, and one he should consider further in his own time.

By his watch, it was one hour and forty-six minutes until he could make his escape. One hour and forty-six minutes of more strained socialising with Sherlock’s rather insane acquaintances, and, of course, the irritable berk himself. That fire poker was looking quite appealing as a tool with which he could—

“Hi, everyone; sorry we’re late! Caught up in a bit of traffic. Wouldn’t think there’s a bloody cab left in England, eh?”

Mycroft was going to have Sherlock murdered. No. He was going to murder Sherlock _himself_. Bugger the higher-ups and the, ‘only in emergencies,’ he had the knife in his umbrella, if he could get away from this wall and find the sod he would bloody well use it. ‘Ran into my knife ten times, officer, I swear!’

He entertained this energetic thought of fratricide for a further ten seconds but, upon not being able to spot the cowardly berk, gave it up in favour of attempting to hide in the kitchen. Then, because John was in there and shooting him strange looks, he produced his phone, smiled charmingly, and enquired if he could perhaps step into Sherlock’s bedroom for a moment as he didn’t want to have to kill everyone in the room if they were witness to this call. John, not being able to tell whether or not he was joking (he wasn’t), nodded rather stupidly and gave a vague gesture towards the room. Mycroft bit back on his automatic, ‘yes, thank you, I do have _eyes_ ,’ and, like a true tactician, hid where the enemy wouldn’t find him. In this case his enemy was his ex-boyfriend, who had an admittedly gorgeous blonde ( _of course she’s blonde, they’re always blonde, aren’t they)_ dangling off one arm and the smuggest fucking look on his face like he knew how ravishing he looked even when he made Mycroft’s chest feel like it was about to collapse in on itself and hurt so _awfully_ —

_Breathe._

He did so.

It did not really help, aside from filling his lungs with the requisite air needed for survival.

His watch read 10:29pm.

He stared at his phone, breathed in deeply again, considered calling Anthea (she did like that little moniker), then re-considered it as it made him seem pusillanimous.

Everything was fine. He would be fine. He could do this. He socialised with people everyday; his acting skills had often been described as being second to none.

It didn’t explain why he was unwilling to leave the bedroom, had his glass clutched in a white-knuckled grip, or why his chest _ached_. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb, squeezing his eyes shut and concentrating on the sounds he could hear from the other room. There was a quiet conversation going on in the kitchen, as well as the sounds of friendly chattering from the living room. The former was the more engrossing:

“…pop out for another snack?” That was Sherlock, at his most gratingly snide.

“Sometimes I can’t believe you two are related,” John replied, and then whispered, “We agreed, didn’t we?”

“I don’t see how that has any bearing—”

“In fact, _you_ were pretty insistent…”

“And now I’m not even allowed the pleasure of insulting him? Where _is_ he… Ah.” The conversation cut off rather abruptly. He presumed Sherlock was dragging John away so they could continue their besmirching. How lovely.

Time to go out and… mingle. Perhaps the blonde would be named Yvette and have a charmingly regional accent. Wouldn’t that be funny, he thought, not finding it very funny at all. He used the shiny touch-screen of his phone to check his appearance, smoothing back a stray curl, and hearing his mother’s strained voice: _smile, Mycroft!_

Yes, Mycroft thought: _smile._  

He put on his best one, checked in the screen that it wasn’t too forced, took a deep breath, and re-entered the throng.

It was, he reflected later, one of the finest roles he had ever played. The polite, unaffected, slightly-aloof-but-in-a-charmingly-quirky-way older brother, who did so like to laugh about how _resentful_ Sherlock was ( _nicked all his Smurfs_ ) and how much he liked to hyperbolise about Mycroft’s role – really, he was merely a simple civil servant working in the Administrative Affairs office, and it wasn’t surprising nobody had heard of it, really it was just a minor little office who did most of the forms and organisation of the government behind-the-scenes, if one liked. Yes, a little like the one off Yes, Minister! Life was full of strange coincidences, indeed.

Of course, with both Sherlock and John out of the room, the only one who could deny any part of his story was Lestrade. But the man seemed to prefer ignoring his existence, so that was all very well and good, wasn’t it?

( _i want to die_ )

Her name was Gabrielle. She was perky, eager to laugh, and kept trying to shove her breasts into his face in a way he suspected may have been accidental, given how… well-endowed she was.

“Oh, Mr. Holmes,” she had an irritating habit of drawling out her ‘s’es and sounding like a beautiful village girl from Provencial France. _Just his type_ , Mycroft thought, his smile briefly becoming strained around the corners of his mouth. “I cannot believe that your work is as… uhhh, Gregory, comment dit on ennuyeux?”

“Boring?” Mycroft supplied, charming smile firmly in place. ‘Gregory’ gave a jerky nod, and otherwise refused to look in Mycroft’s direction.

“Yes! Gregory is trying to teach me the English, but…” She shrugged, giggling a little. Mycroft thought she was the most repulsive person he had ever met. “I am not so good. I have lived in Bordeaux since I was maybe four. It is hard, your language, so many rules that no one seems to follow.”

“Your English is perfectly sound,” he said reassuringly. “Many of our politicians speak it poorly, even those who were born here. It seems an advantage sometimes to be born outside of England, in fact.”

Another of those jaw-grinding titters. She and Miss Hooper should have a competition.

“Ah, I am hoping to get much better now that we are moving back here.” If she pressed her breasts any further into him, he was going to fall into the fire. It was looking more and more appealing.

“Are you? How wonderful.”

“Yes, yes, Gregory—” In some dark part of his mind, he wanted to stab her every time she called Lestrade that because it was _his_ name for the man ( _but not anymore, you stupid sod_ ) “—has gotten his old job back! We were all very excited for him, and I wanted to come and study in England so I thought I would come back with him. It has been all so very exciting, non, Gregory?”

Lestrade gave a particularly loquacious grunt, and continued to stare a hole through the wallpaper.

“You are being tonight very refermé,” she scolded, drawing back from Mycroft – _thank God_ – to tap her boyfriend on the arm. He scowled at her; something in Mycroft’s shrivelled, black heart sang with joy. “Franchement! You were the one who has wanted to come to this party, and all of these guests are so lovely, and you are acting so aloof. What has gotten inside of you?”

“It’s ‘into you’, Gabe,” he replied quietly, through gritted teeth. She smacked him again, laughing.

“Have some more of the whisky and come to talk to your friends, _Greg_.”

It was nauseating how much of a married couple they were, thought Mycroft, dropping the hideously forced smile for a moment. Were they married already? His heart, which had been singing, decided to defy the laws of anatomy that he had always thought to be quite binding and attempt to drop further down in his chest. _Coming back to England for your old job with your gorgeous new wife to flaunt her, are you?_

He needed a drink.

Once in the kitchen, and with the sliding door shut, he braced both hands on either side of the sink, closing his eyes. His hatred of Sherlock had died down to its usual simmering bitterness, and he was left feeling rather… what was the colloquial? Gutted. Yes, that was accurate.

But, he supposed this was good. Lestrade had moved on, he was… happy, and now Mycroft could move on as well. That was how these things went, wasn’t it?

He blamed the god-awful wine for this sudden desire to order a nuclear strike against France, especially on the (no doubt lovely, idealistic and utterly innocent) region of Bordeaux. 

11:32pm. Thank every deity that had at some point in history been worshipped. It was probably socially acceptable for him to leave right now – anyway, most of the guests were inebriated, so it wasn’t as if anyone could stop him. As for anyone _missing_ him… well, the thought was laughable, if he were the sort to laugh at depressingly true thoughts, which, thankfully, did not fall under his purview.

It probably wouldn’t be sporting or polite of him to leave without saying his goodbyes, but he was feeling neither sporting nor terribly polite, so he supposed that would be all right, then.

And it would have been all right, had Sherlock and John not chosen that particular moment to respectively saunter and stagger their way down from the good doctor’s room. The good doctor looked somewhat flushed, and Mycroft, to his irritation, could read exactly what _activities_ they had been engaged in. 

“Celebrating early?” Mycroft asked with a touch of acid, coat already draped over one arm.

“Oh, are you leaving, Mycroft?” John replied, blushing even redder (if such a feat were possible.) “Um, nice to have you here, see you sometime—”

“You’re not leaving,” Sherlock cut in firmly, glaring icy blue daggers at his brother. Given Mycroft had taught him how to glare daggers at people, he was not overly impressed.

“Strange as it may seem, Sherlock, some of us do have reliable careers.”

“Which is why you were on sick leave for three days over Christmas?”

“I am not going to ask how you acquired that information, but yes. I caught a nasty bug.”

“You can’t leave before midnight. The front door’s locked,” he added triumphantly. “As well as every window and escape way.”

“How amusing,” Mycroft said coldly. “I do hope you are having great fun at my expense, brother.” He placed his coat back on the hanger – he had forgotten his lockpicks, and had no desire to go searching for Sherlock’s. Besides, it was only twenty minutes until midnight, he could hardly have his insides crushed any more than they were already. “Come, have you met _Gabrielle_?”

Molly and Gabrielle were, indeed, having a giggling competition. He felt nauseated, had a headache, and wanted nothing more than to be in bed with a bottle of aspirin and a hot water bottle… and possibly a glass of tawny. 

Mrs. Hudson chose this moment to plead exhaustion, bat at Sherlock’s arm with drunk affection, and toddle off downstairs to partake in her nightly soother, which would not mix well with the sherry she had consumed.

 

\--

 

11:53pm.

His thoughts over the next few minutes roughly translated to:

_Do I still have that cyanide pill?_

_Can her laugh be any shriller—? Yes, yes, it can, God help me._

_I’m sure I have that cyanide pill here somewhere._

_How much of this sparkling wine have I drunk?_

_Will Gregory ever stare his way through the wall?_

_When can I leave?_

_Is my brother putting his tongue down John’s throat? Oh dear, he is, how repulsive._

_God, when can I leave?_

_Are those fireworks now? No, just the cat from next door._

_Two minutes and they’ve not come up for air. My brother is a freak of nature in more ways than I thought possible._

_Finally, two minutes and thirty six seconds._

_Oh, no, they’re at it again._

_Dear God._

He had already drunk… a lot of wine. So he moved onto drinking the last of the whisky, which was equally dreadful. It was slightly hard to focus his eyes on his watch. 11… was that a six or an eight? He squinted. 11:58pm. He was… as the working class put it… utterly, completely, entirely _pissed_ , and it didn’t feel as good as it usually did, because usually his ex-boyfriend wasn’t staring at him weirdly as he leaned against the wall—oh dear Lord, there was no wall there, fuck, the sod had moved. He swore it had been there a second ago. Maybe he’d had too much to drink. Maybe… maybe he hadn’t had enough.

There was a warm hand on his shoulder, and human contact should not feel this good but it did and he was sad now because it would go away. There were words, and they were low and rough and deep and he wanted to be cocooned by the words and the warmth but the hand shook him, made him focus instead.

“You alright?”

He giggled. Then he stopped, because he did not giggle. Unless maybe Gregory liked insipid giggling, in which case...

Gregory sighed. “Here, let’s get you up.” Vertigo was an unpleasant sensation. He only stopped himself from throwing up because he was Mycroft Holmes and even minor government officials did not throw up except maybe if they’d been poisoned but he didn’t think poor liquor counted. “How much’ve you had? God,” he exclaimed a second later, “you’re light as a feather. Do you eat?”

Not if he could help it, he wanted to reply, but the act of moving one’s mouth to let words flow out was suddenly a task that was beyond his capacity. He was perfectly capable of slumping over Gregory, though.

 _Fuck!_ Loud noises. Fuck, fuck, what were they. “Are we being bombed?” he rasped.

The surface he was clinging to rumbled, and he suspected an earthquake until he realised it was Gregory’s chest. “Nah, ‘s just the fireworks,” he was assured a moment later, when the rumbling ceased.

Good. That was good. Why was that good? 

Oh! He could leave. 

Actually, he was finding it somewhat difficult to stand up by himself at the moment. Text Anthea, that’s what he would do. She’d get a nice, strapping man to carry him back to… to his apartment, yes. A warm bed would suffice, really.

“I need to leave,” he told Gregory’s chest seriously. It rumbled again. Well, if that was its response, he would not be talking to it anymore.

“Can you even walk by yourself?”

He didn’t especially want to try, so he shook his head instead, which turned out an equally bad idea. “Oh, God,” he said, in a completely even voice. It was an understatement, he thought.

“Nah, just Greg.” Another rumble. “Sorry, sorry, you’re drunk, I know, shouldn’t be poking fun. D’you want me to call you a cab, or something?”

“No. ‘M fine.” He’d been repeating it often enough over the past few months that he ought to have been able to convince anyone. Gregory shook his head, frowning. Mycroft made a vague sound that was a bit like a gurgle and more like a choke and entirely embarrassing if he had the ability to be embarrassed by this stage. He didn’t.

“You are so far from fine it’s not even funny.”

Dear God he hadn’t cried since the day after the funeral ( _in Greg’s arms again_ ) and he wasn’t about to now. Ridiculous. He slid a little further down Gregory’s chest, nearly limp by this point. He would have suspected foul play on the behalf of his brother, had Mycroft not drunk so much and mixed his drinks like a novice.

“Hey, look, I’ll drop you home, alright? Come on, up you get.” He was dragged unwillingly upwards, where his head rather stupidly lolled back. He summoned the strength to jerk it back up. Oh, sublime: now it was dangling forwards. “Sherlock! I’m taking your brother home; what’s his address?”

Evidently Sherlock did not think it important enough to extract himself from John, so Mycroft muttered the street name and number.

“That in Knightsbridge?” Gregory asked, sounding alarmed. “Yeah, would’ve picked it, you being all swanky and…” He cleared his throat. “Let’s go, eh?”

“What about Gab… Gabri…” Words were hard, he mused. 

“Gabrielle? Oh, she’ll be right; she’s busy snogging Molly over by the fireplace. They’ll be fine.”

“ _What_?” He was afraid that he might have squawked.

“What what? You wanted a go at her?”

“She’s your…” He flapped one hand. “Thing. Isn’t she?” Did Gregory go for that sort of deal? Polygamy? Could Mycroft get in on it somehow? This being held thing was… nice.

“Cousin?” Gregory prompted.

Well, Mycroft wasn’t about to judge the man… but marrying his cousin? Really? “No, no, your… you know. Thing.” He managed to control his fine motor functions long enough to twitch his right hand up and shake his fourth finger.

“Er… you mean like… wife?” Gregory wrinkled his nose when Mycroft nodded. “God, no. Have you heard her laugh? Like a bloody hyena. This door locked?” he asked, turning the knob fruitlessly. Mycroft nodded again, not fully comprehending the muttered response. “Christ above. Wait here, yeah?”

He exchanged one surface for another and slumped against the wall. Gregory returned shortly, wielding the key and muttering about certain consulting detectives. Mycroft wanted to be held again, so badly the ache had sprung up in his chest once more, returning with an unpleasant force. It wasn’t long before Gregory was manhandling him out of 221 and down the street. How far was his car? It seemed to be miles away…

He was being levered onto a leather seat and buckled in – which he had to snort at – before he could say two words about it. Given the time it would take for him to say two words was a long time… there was a point to that sentence, but he’d forgotten. Just like the thought that this was a bad idea he’d regret in the morning. Oh, there it was again. Ah well, there was the morning for that. He’d probably spend it throwing up, which was something to look forward to.

Mycroft gazed out the window as Gregory drove, staring with wide eyes at the fireworks still lighting up the London nightscape. He’d never much seen the point of fireworks, and even drunk he still didn’t. They produced pretty colours and shapes, and that was it – was that really enough to entertain the common man? He had a higher esteem for the average Briton’s intelligence than they warranted, then.

Before too long, they were pulling up to his block of apartments. “Top floor,” he replied groggily when the other man asked. They took the elevator up. Time was going way, way too fast for Mycroft’s liking. He’d simply have to find a way to slow it down. “I’ll have to key us in. Oh, God,” he said again, “too far – can you…? 23824, kindly don’t sell that to my enemies. Wouldn’t be worth it; change it every two days.” It occurred to him he was placing more trust in Gregory than he did in his assistant. 

 _God help you, you’re in love with him_ , he thought rather matter-of-factly, before once again resisting the urge to throw up all over his shoes.

“Don’t worry,” Gregory grunted, wrestling him into the flat, “I don’t have the speed dial for any nefarious organisations on my phone; you can rest at ease.” Once inside, he gave a low whistle. Mycroft presumed at the size of the apartment.

“That’s good. I think I’m going to vomit soon,” he informed the man. “And then pass out. I’d be obliged if you spent the night to confirm I don’t choke and die, but if you are otherwise engaged you may call my assistant.”

“It’s a date.” Gregory even gave him a grin, which did strange things to his insides and, oh dear, he really was going to vomit now. “Now, where’s your bathroom?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise to anyone who speaks French even in the slightest.


	4. Good Foundations

Mycroft was uncertain to whom he could attribute the credit for his ability to consume vast quantities of alcohol one night and wake up the next morning feeling hardly the worse for it. It had likely been Mummy’s side of the family – art in the blood did take the strangest forms, great-uncle Harold (or, as he preferred to be known, ‘my Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ’) aside.

It had been the one good deal his genes had given him, and it was made all the better by the fact that Sherlock could only drink two glasses before being assured of waking up the next morning with a migraine. He never seemed to learn his lesson, however; he’d consumed far more than two glasses last night. Typical.

Well, it was Mycroft’s duty as a concerned older brother to visit today… and his duty to his pride necessitated that he make it as unbearable a visit as possible. He’d get one of those deep-fried take away… things, which smelled repulsive even when one was not suffering from a sensory overload. Oh, Sherlock would _regret_ last night. Mycroft would make certain of it.

Speaking of last night, he thought he recalled…

Hold on. Was that… bacon? Did he even _own_ bacon? He thought his refrigerator was empty, apart from a jug of water, bread, butter, and yoghurt.

His mind flashed through a number of possible scenarios – _my assistant? Sherlock? Her Majesty?_ He discarded all of them, although the last was the most likely. Her Majesty had a peculiar fondness for bacon. He found it rather disgusting himself. All that fat. The Americans liked to pour pancake batter over it, as well.

Before he could make himself sick thinking about the strange tendencies of the denizens of the US of A too much, he got up. He was still dressed in last night’s suit. Well, parts of it, at least. His shirt was utterly ruined, he thought, staring at the crinkled-beyond-repair fabric. Worse things had happened, he supposed, although he could not immediately think of them.

He was not entirely sure what – or whom – he expected to be commandeering his barely used kitchen. It was a source of gladness when he realised the person wasn’t likely to murder him, just abuse his library again.

“Hi,” said Lestrade, a little too chirpily for Mycroft’s liking. The sun hadn’t even risen yet. There ought to be a law against happiness in the morning. “Hungry?”

 _Not especially_ , he didn’t say, instead giving a curt, “Thank you.”

“Nice place.” He thought this might be Lestrade’s attempt at idle small talk. It only served to remind him of the fact that in the three months they had been together, he had not once taken Lestrade ‘home’, as it were. The thought… rankled, although he'd barely considered it at the time. He was starting to feel the same way about a lot of things he'd never given much attention to previously.

They adjourned to the kitchen table, where Lestrade began to eat his meal with gusto and Mycroft ignored his. He wasn’t due to eat for another half hour, and he certainly was not going to consume what had been put in front of him, disgustingly salt, calorie, sugar, and fat rich as it was.

The facts, Mycroft mused, were these:

1\. He had become heavily intoxicated last night. No surprises there.  
2\. Lestrade was in his apartment.  
3\. Lestrade had brought foodstuff – bacon, eggs, tomato, and what appeared to be some sort of sausage – into his apartment.  
4\. Lestrade had slept on his couch, judging by the way in which his clothing was wrinkled.

The conjecture, therefore, was that:

1\. Lestrade had, out of the goodness of his heart and/or a desire to humiliate Mycroft, taken him home last night.  
2\. Lestrade had been up for some time – long enough to find a supermarket, purchase the goods, and come back – implying he had not had very much sleep. Perhaps… three to four hours.  
3\. Lestrade still cared for him, enough to make sure he did not choke on his own fluids in the night (which he rather richly deserved, getting so foolishly inebriated in an unsecure environment.)

Mycroft did not quite know what to do with the last piece of information. Perhaps it wasn’t true, he thought doubtfully. But that would imply a flaw in his ability to reason and analyse facts, which… had, admittedly, been suffering for some time. It was not a crime to be incorrect, he reminded himself, hating it regardless.

He could, he thought, staring at the deliciously _rumpled_ and definitely _not his_ Lestrade, get accustomed to this quiet domesticity. The idle thought frightened him almost more than being held at gunpoint by a military trained killer had.

He should have told Lestrade to leave. He should have done so upon first entering the kitchen—no, before that, even, when the man had told him cheerfully to budge up under his umbrella, passed him a styrofoam cup filled with abysmal tea, and proceeded to chatter blithely about the case as though he weren't a complete stranger lurking on the shadows of a crime-scene. It was too little, too late. They should never have come together in the first place. All this emotion – repulsive, vile, unwanted emotion – could have been so easily avoided.

“I'm not an idiot,” Lestrade said earnestly, as if Mycroft somehow did not know.

“Really.” It was a pathetic attempt to nettle the man; Mycroft was too raw still to inflect his voice with anything but dullness.

He wasn't surprised at the smile he received, or the equally as light, “Very funny.” Lestrade drummed his fingers on the table-top in a habit Mycroft should have no doubt found annoying, and continued: “So, as I'm not an idiot, I get to thinking why they decided to reinstate me. Sherlock's been banging on about it for months with nothing to show, and just after he finally gives up on it... bam, here's your job back, thanks for coming. To top it off, the Super I never liked has decided to retire early.” He stopped drumming, staring Mycroft dead in the eye. “What'd you think of that, eh?”

Mycroft gave his blandest, most minor-government-position smile. “Surely that’s excellent news.”

“Yeah,” Lestrade replied slowly. “That's what everyone else said too. It is, isn't it? Really great. Love my job – ah,” he broke off with a smile that didn't reach his eyes, “but hey, you know all about that, don't you?”

Best to nip this in the bud. It could only get messier.

“Don't allow your personal feelings to overwhelm your professional judgement,” Mycroft advised. His voice was a bit colder than he'd intended, but this entire situation had put him on his guard. It was a little hard to be compassionate and considerate when for forty-one years he'd been told by his family, acquaintances, and himself that such things were weakness.

“That what you live by? That how you could lie about… Fuck, sorry.” Lestrade sighed, scrubbing a hand across his face. He pushed his empty plate away. “This isn't about that.”

“I think it should be about that,” Mycroft replied quietly. Sherlock's text was still in his mind – use the advice he had impatiently snapped at his younger brother. _Every relationship, be it personal, business or otherwise, is built on a sense of trust, Sherlock. Without trust, without the person feeling as though there is the possibility of trust, you can have no semblance of a productive or holistic relationship._ Easier said than done, he was realising. “It's obviously on your mind.”

“What about yours?”

“Of course. I’ve… thought of little else for some time.” The honesty, like all truth (and some lies), was brutal. He thought he could overcome that, if only for the surprised, hopeful, and, god help him,  _happy_  look he received.  
  
Lestrade… Gregory ( _yes, he could be, couldn’t he_ ) stared at him. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.” He made an abortive movement with one hand, glanced down at Mycroft’s – folded neatly, one on top of the other – and then stretched out, after slight hesitation, to touch, to slide over Mycroft's fingers, to put his hand on top of that pile.  
  
Okay, Mycroft thought, feeling the first bloom of something in his chest after weeks,  _months_  of unending numbness punctuated by that perennial ache. Yes, he decided; he could be okay.


End file.
